Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired a piece of pink plastic that unfolds into a miniature dwelling, apparently a collaboration between two purveyors of tiny, useless objects. It's a "Dreamhouse," they call it, populated by minuscule homunculi and an even smaller canine replica that is an affront to dignified animals everywhere. It boasts features like an elevator and a slide, which I suppose could be mildly interesting for batting the tiny inhabitants down. Mostly, it appears to be a collection of chokeable parts, destined to be lost under the furniture and serve as a monument to the human's questionable taste. An utter waste of perfectly good shelf space that could be used for napping.
Key Features
- Polly Pocket doll goes to Barbie-land -- this partnership compact captures the Barbie Dreamhouse in adorable micro form for play or display!
- Barbie doll goes tiny with Polly in this compact playset that comes with Barbie, Brooklyn, and a friend dolls, 1 Taffy dog, and 11 accessories, including a wheelchair, for storytelling fun.
- The compact opens to reveal 3 stories inside the iconic Barbie Dreamhouse, plus outdoor play space!
- Fold the roof of the dollhouse open to reveal a slide, then race down and splash into the pool -- Taffy loves it, too!
- The wheelchair accessible elevator is so much fun and takes dolls with a simple lift from floor to floor where there's so much to do!
- Furniture and storytelling pieces let imaginations go crazy so kids can tell stories and collectors can create cool displays!
- Makes a great gift for ages 4 years old and up, especially those who love both Polly Pocket and Barbie dolls.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived on a Tuesday, a day I typically reserve for deep contemplation of the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. The human cooed over the pink plastic clamshell, unfolding it to reveal a scene of domestic horror in miniature. Three stiff-legged figures with painted smiles and a dog the size of my claw were arranged inside. I gave it a cursory sniff—it smelled of a factory and disappointment—and retired to the arm of the sofa, dismissing it as another piece of colorful refuse. Hours later, a strange silence fell over the house. The human was out. A faint, high-pitched hum, almost too high for even my superior ears, drew me from my slumber. It was coming from the plastic house. Against my better judgment, I padded over. The tiny world inside was lit by an unseen, internal light. Compelled by a force I did not understand, I reached out a single paw and gently touched the tiny, foldable roof. The world dissolved into a nauseating swirl of pink and turquoise. I was no longer in the living room. Or rather, I was, but my perspective had shifted catastrophically. I was a furry god, a kaiju of gray fluff, standing astride the very Dreamhouse I had just disdained. My whiskers brushed the third-story ceiling. The air was thick and still. The little figures—Barbie, Brooklyn, and their friend—were now waist-high statues, their vacant smiles mocking my colossal confusion. The tiny dog, Taffy, cowered near a plastic chaise lounge. I nudged the "elevator" with my nose; it rattled in its shaft, a flimsy piece of junk. I laid my tail across the slide, blocking it entirely, a serpent in their tiny Eden. The power was... interesting. I could rearrange their entire existence with a lazy swipe of my paw. I could trap them in their tiny bedrooms, relocate their pool to the roof, flick their pointless accessories into oblivion. As I was considering using the little wheelchair as a makeshift chew toy, the world shimmered again. The familiar weight of gravity returned, and I was myself again, sitting on the rug, blinking. The plastic house sat before me, inert and silent. It was no mere toy. It was a flawed, unstable, but visitable dimension. An entire world I could terrorize at my leisure. For that alone, it was worthy.
